


patchwork

by deadeyeboy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:26:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8310166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadeyeboy/pseuds/deadeyeboy
Summary: Tony's not sure if his and Steve's relationship will ever recover. He's not sure that he wants it to.
A follow-up to laireshi's awesome fic, Fracture.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laire (laireshi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fracture](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7323130) by [laireshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi). 



Tony cleans himself up with the shredded remains of his shirt, slowly and painfully. There’s come leaking out of him, and while he might’ve fantasized about Steve coming inside him on more than one occasion—

His stomach revolts.

He spends a few minutes hunched over the bin next to his desk, breath coming in short and shaking bursts. Nothing comes up, and he sits back heavily on his sore ass, trying desperately to get his breathing back under control.

He’s not supposed to be this weak. He hates this. He knows that he deserves this.

It’s a struggle to get his legs back underneath them, and when he does, he walks on trembling legs around his desk. The mobile phone looks like something from 2003 - trust Steve to be old-fashioned - and he’s vaguely afraid it will burn him when he picks it up.

It doesn’t.

There’s nothing on it except a number. He closes the phone, clutches it in his hand for a moment. He imagines briefly having Steve’s strength; the same hands that left bruises and cracks all over his body could easily crush the stupid thing into powder.

But he doesn’t have Steve’s strength. The phone merely sits in his hand like an inexplicably heavy weight.

He ends up shoving the thing into the back of one of his desk drawers. With any luck he’ll forget it even exists.

(He knows that’s an impossibility.)

Thankfully it’s late, and the compound is quiet; no one will find him hobbling up to his big, empty quarters with his skin littered with purpling bruises and his tattered shirt clutched to his chest like it's something precious. Even FRIDAY is silent as he climbs into the shower and runs the water so hot that it scalds his skin.

It’s never hot enough to wash away the ghost of Steve’s hands clutching at him, or the sensation of come dripping down between his thighs. Standing beneath the thundering spray, Tony allows himself one, two shuddering sobs before catching his breath and holding it until the need passes. He’s got too much work to do to have a break down now; Steve’s latest— _retaliation_ is merely another jagged stone on the mountain of things that Tony’s got to try and fix with clumsy hands.

He towels off, gives himself a wretched smile in the mirror, and tries not to think about dying.

• • •

A massive rift opens up in the sky over northern France, and at this point the Accords just seem petty. That doesn’t quell the acrid taste of bile in Tony’s throat as he fishes the mobile phone from the back of its drawer, but he does it anyway. Gratifyingly, Steve calls him first.

It takes the council all of five minutes to permit entry to Tony and his tiny band of Avengers, and in a few hours time Tony’s landing the quinjet in a field on the outskirts of a rural town in Lower Normandy. The others are there already. Tony’s jaw is clenched so tightly that his teeth hurt, and his faceplate stays securely down.

“Looks like the gang’s all here,” he says as steadily as he can as his team approaches Steve’s. There’s five feet of space between both sides, and everyone’s staring at each other with varying degrees of wariness and suspicion, like feral dogs, and this is never going to work. Tony can’t even bring himself to look at Steve, unsure of whether he’ll want to blast him in the face with a repulsor or break down crying if he does.

“It’s good to see you on your feet, man,” Sam says somewhat hesitantly to Rhodey, stepping forward and offering his hand. After a brief pause, War Machine’s faceplate flips up, and he gives Sam a grim smile as they shake hands.

(Tony doesn’t think he’ll ever get over just how _good_ Rhodey is.)

After that, the teams intermingle hesitantly, and it’s nothing like it used to be, but it’s a start.

“It’s good to see you, Tony,” comes an uncharacteristically cautious voice. Tony swings his head around and Steve is standing far too close, Tony feels like he should require a ten foot distance at all times. Steve’s _smiling_ at him, albeit weakly, and it withers and fades when Tony merely regards him with an impassive faceplate. Anger rises hot and slick in his throat; how dare Steve have the _gall_ to just stand there and expect Tony to smile back, like everything’s fine, like all is forgiven.

“This isn’t a fucking meet and greet,” he snaps, vicious, and even Vision sends him a startled look. “Big giant fucking hole in the sky, possibly aliens, remember? Let’s _go._ ”

He turns away, clenching his fists as he still catches a glimpse of the unhappy look spreading across Steve’s face. Who gave him the _right_?

Whatever. They’ve got a job to do.

• • •

They save the world, and nobody dies - on the team, at least - which is about as much as Tony will let himself hope for anymore. The incident also sparks a debate over how exactly the Accords extend to global emergencies like alien invasions, but for the moment, standing on the landing pad of the terribly empty Avengers Facility, Tony is too exhausted to keep up or really even care. His armor is beat to shit, and by extent his body is as well, and he hasn’t gotten more than a few hours sleep at a time for the past few _months_ —

Steve is staring at him, his brow furrowed and his lips drawn tight.

“What do you want, Rogers?” Tony says, opting for anger, because it’s a better option than the visceral fear that threatens to overtake him. Steve’s face has starred in too many of his nightmares lately, sneering and twisting as he plunged the edge of the shield into Tony’s throat, as he plunged hard and uncaring into Tony’s bleeding body.

Steve visibly shrinks back, though his jaw goes hard in that typical stubborn fashion. “Listen,” he starts, and the urge to throw something at his stupid face is so strong that Tony has to clench his hands around his helmet resting in his palms, the servos in his gauntlets humming. “I— I made a mistake by not telling you, I know that, and I’m not expecting you to forgive me, but I thought in the interest of working together, we could at least try to be civil—”

“That’s rich, coming from the guy whose idea of retaliation is sticking his dick in me,” Tony says before he can stop himself.

Steve stops short, his mouth falling open and his brow furrowing. “What? Tony, _what_?”

It’s almost too much for Tony to handle, anger threatening to choke him. He wants to throw up. Instead he spits, “Don’t fucking pull that with _me_ , we both know exactly what happened, there’s video evidence and the bruises didn’t fade for _weeks_ —”

“Tony, stop,” Steve says, and Tony actually does despite himself, because that’s panic in Steve’s voice, loud and clear. “I don’t understand, I really don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“The week after Siberia? Late night at the office, burner phone present, and, oh yeah, you fucked me over the desk?” And it was all wrong, Steve had been nothing but cold and cruel, and Tony is proud of the way his voice barely trembles. “That ring a bell?”

Steve looks like he’s about to be sick, and it’s gratifying but not at all the reaction Tony was expecting. It doesn’t make _sense._

“That wasn’t. But that wasn’t _real_ ,” Steve says hoarsely, fingers worrying at the edge of his shield. “It was a nightmare, and I had the phone sent in—”

“Security footage on my private server says otherwise,” Tony says tersely, but not without a feeling like a heavy stone sinking in his gut. Suppose even for one moment that Steve’s telling the truth (he’s lied before, why not again?) - it would mean that all of Tony’s anger, everything that’s been festering inside of him for months has no outlet.

He’s not sure he can handle that.

“Gotta go. Lots of work to catch up on,” and it’s the truth.

“Tony—”

“I’m sure someone will be able to keep you out of prison for a little while,” Tony interrupts, and then whatever Steve might have said to that is drowned out by the roar of repulsors as Tony launches into the sky, speeding towards his bright empty tower.

• • •

“I could hurt you,” Steve’s whispering in Tony’s ear as he moves rhythmically in and out of Tony’s body. It hurts, dry and rough thrusts jarring his spine against the hard wood of the desk, and Tony can’t help the moisture that leaks out of the corner of his watering eyes. “I belong in a prison, after all.”

He grips Tony’s arms hard enough to bruise then. Tony lets out a hoarse gasp, back arching away from the pain as Steve pulls him down onto him even deeper. “Isn’t that right, Tony?” His fingers start to dig into Tony’s flesh, making him whimper and writhe. “Tony?” Too gentle, and Steve is shaking Tony now, he doesn’t quite understand—

“Tony!”

Tony’s fist connects with something solid. The hands on his arms loosen and then leave him entirely, and Tony jolts awake, heart rabbiting in his chest.

“Who— what the fuck are you doing here?” he says, less angry than he is flabbergasted. Steve’s nose is all bloody, and Tony can’t help but feel vindicated as Steve tries to wipe it away but instead just ends up smearing it all over his mouth and chin. “Aren’t you supposed to be in hiding? Or did you come to turn yourself in?” Petty, yeah, but Tony feels like maybe he deserves to be petty.

Steve, impressively, manages to reign his temper in to narrowed eyes and a set jaw. “You were having a nightmare.”

“While I’m incredibly flattered that you’re risking hard time in superprison because I was having a bad dream, having you here really isn’t helping matters.”

That makes Steve glance away, Adam’s apple bobbing. There’s about three feet of space between them on the couch, but even in the dim light Tony can still see all the little twitches in Steve’s neck and jaw that give away what his expression won’t. “That’s what I’m here about. I, I don’t expect you to forgive me for what’s happened, but what happened in your office was—”

“Let me guess, you’re here to clear your good name,” Tony says dully.

He can see Steve trying not to frown, but all he does is open up one of the pouches on his uniform (which could really use some TLC, Tony thinks absently) and draw out a flashdrive. “Before I, before— what happened, I was investigating a Hydra cell based in an old military bunker in Jersey. Turns out their main point of research was mysticism, which I thought sounded like nonsense until I saw their work in hypnosis—”

“Steve,” Tony says, softly. “Shut up.”

Steve almost drops the flashdrive. “I’m sorry,” he says, too quickly, “I just thought I—”

“I believe you,” Tony interrupts, loudly.

If he weren’t so miserable, Tony might feel like laughing; Steve looks like he’s about to have a stroke.

“But,” he’s saying, “I—”

“I believe you,” Tony repeats, before flopping back onto the couch and throwing an arm over his eyes. “I don’t need evidence on a flashdrive or whatever other bullshit you’re going to pull out of those stupid pouches.”

Steve is silent for such a long time that Tony has to lift his arm and squint and him. He’s sitting with his boots flat on the floor and his hands clasped between his knees, shoulders hunched. His expression is unreadable.

Then: “I didn’t think you had a reason to trust me anymore.”

Tony closes his eyes and shifts on the couch, getting more comfortable. “I don’t,” he says, quite sincerely. “And yet I still do. Isn’t that fucking stupid?” Then, before Steve can answer: “Hey, go get me a double scotch from the minibar. On the rocks.”

He can practically feel Steve’s judgmental stare boring into him, but to his utmost surprise he then hears Steve rise and walk away. The clink of ice, the glug of a bottle, and a perspiring glass is pushed into Tony’s outstretched hand. Without opening his eyes or even sitting up, Tony strains his neck up to sip at his scotch. He smacks his lips as it slips down his throat, smooth and hot, then thumps his head back against the couch and rests the glass on his chest.

For maybe two whole minutes, there’s total silence save for the rattle of ice as Tony sips from his glass. Finally, he opens his eyes.

“I’ve been so angry at you for such a long time,” Tony says, voice a low rasp. “For a little while I wanted to kill you. And now all that anger’s got nowhere to go, ‘cause it turns out Hydra mind-whammied you and you had as little control as I did.”

“Tony—”

“Shut the fuck up and let me talk, Steve,” Tony snarls. Wisely, Steve does. There’s a smear of blood on his forehead where Steve had scratched at it after trying to wipe away the blood from his nose, and Tony fixates on it.

“But I’ve got to get over that,” Tony says after a moment, absently balancing the glass of scotch on his knee and slowly turning it in his fingers. “It’s not fair to blame you for something that you weren’t in control of. Just like it’s not fair to blame Bucky.”

Steve doesn’t even interrupt this time, and Tony is free to continue on, voice quivering, “You should be in prison. You lied to me, you kept information from me that I deserved to know for _months_ , and you couldn’t even properly apologize for it, and yet — and yet — ” He swallows hard, empty hand grasping at nothing, before he tosses back the rest of his drink. “And yet I still _trust_ you, and I can’t begin to explain why, and that makes me so angry I can’t even see straight.”

After nearly a minute of silence, Tony glances sideways to see Steve staring down at the floor, expression pinched and unhappy. It gives Tony immense satisfaction at the same time he wants to reach out and ease that frown away - yet another infuriating combination of colliding emotions.

“I need time,” he says, voice hoarse. “Lots of time. I don’t know if I can forgive you, Steve. But maybe someday, when things aren’t so fucked up— we could move past that.”

At that, Steve looks up, and his eyes are so immensely hopeful that Tony kind of wants to punch him again. Instead, he thrusts out a hand, not bothering to fight back the half-smile that twists at his lips as Steve jumps at the sudden movement.

“Shake on it,” Tony says evenly. Slowly, and oh-so gently, as if he’s not quite sure that this is real, Steve grasps Tony’s hand in both of his, the leather of his gloves cool and rough. He holds on a little too long before standing suddenly.

“Take care of yourself, Tony.”

“Right back atcha,” Tony says a little later, to an empty room. He stands, then goes to get himself another drink.

**Author's Note:**

> This took me ages to write, like always, but i'm pretty happy with it for now. 
> 
> find me on tumblr [here](goodoldshellhead.tumblr.com).


End file.
